


we drove through rain and thunder

by leapylion3



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bullying, F/F, F/M, Father-Daughter Relationship, First Love, Gen, Homophobia, Homophobic Language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-09
Updated: 2014-04-09
Packaged: 2018-01-18 19:27:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1440010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leapylion3/pseuds/leapylion3
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After her parents' divorce, Shireen gets shipped off to live with her father.</p>
            </blockquote>





	we drove through rain and thunder

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mautadite](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mautadite/gifts).



> Written for mautadite for the got_exchange. Thanks to Freddie and Kynedy for the beta! xoxo
> 
> Based off of the poem "Mutually Assured Destruction" by Sherman Alexie.

_When I was nine, my father sliced his knee_

_With a chainsaw. But he let himself bleed_

_And finished cutting down one more tree_

_Before his boss drove him to EMERGENCY._

_Later that night, stoned on morphine and beer,_

_My father needed help to steer_

_His pickup into the woods. “Watch for deer,”_

_My father said. “Those things just appear_

_Like magic.” It was an Indian summer_

_And we drove through warm rain and thunder,_

_Until we found the chainsaw, lying under_

_The fallen pine. Then I watched, with wonder,_

_As my father, shotgun-rich and impulse-poor,_

_Blasted that chainsaw dead. “What was that for?”_

_I asked. “Son,” my father said. “Here’s the score._

_Once a thing tastes blood, it will come for more.”_

_-Sherman Alexie_

* * *

 

The train rolls to a stop at the station, wheels shrieking and engines spluttering pathetically. Raindrops trail down the window, and Shireen watches them intently, pretending they are in a race against one another. She waits until everyone in her car has disembarked before she grabs her luggage and tiptoes onto the platform. She spots her father instantly through the large crowd and shuffles towards him, while trying to manage her three suitcases. (She only wanted to bring one, but Mum had insisted.)

“Hi,” Dad greets her, paired with an unconvincing smile. If her father was anyone else, he would have pulled her in for a tight hug, sweeping her off her feet, whispering into her hair how much he missed her, despite having seen her a month ago. (But her father is _not_ anyone else; her father is Stannis Baratheon, and he hardly knows the definition of physical affection.)

“Hullo,” she murmurs, fixing her hoodie to make sure it covers more of her face. (Even before getting the burns across her face, she’s always been self-conscious, whether it was how her jaw stuck out a little too much, or her wide ears that never quite fit under a hat properly.)

“How have you been?” He grabs two of her bags and wheels them behind his lean frame. (He’s lost weight since she last saw him, though that might just be because Mum isn’t around to cook meals for him anymore. He forgets to eat a lot.)

“Okay,” she says, shoving a hand into her pocket as the other curls around the handle of her suitcase. She follows her father outside to the car, the same old 2003 Dodge Caravan he’s had since before she was born. The only people she knew with a minivan were large families, not a middle-aged single dad. (He and Mum had been planning for a big family, but it hadn’t worked out; they’d only managed to have Shireen, and that was all because of in vitro fertilization.) (It was why they split up, Shireen thinks.)

“How is your mother doing?” His seatbelt _click_ s into place.

 _She checked herself into a rehab centre_ , Shireen almost says. _She ran halfway across the country and left me with a father I barely know._ Selyse had a mental breakdown soon after her divorce with Stannis went through, and after a few calls, Shireen was enrolled in a school closer to her dad’s and her mom was on a plane to Dorne. (She doesn’t blame her mom, not truly. Shireen just always ends up stuck in the middle of everything, and she is not always sure how to deal with it.)

“She’s fine,” Shireen says instead.

He can tell she is lying, she knows. “Good,” is all he grinds out.

“And what about you? Been doing okay?”

He sighs deeply, and he seems to have aged ten years in the span of a second. She sees bags under his eyes and newly formed wrinkles on his forehead she had not noticed before; his knuckles are gripping the steering wheel so tightly they are almost transparent. (She thinks he’s about to have a heart attack, and a sense of panic turns her blood to ice. She’s taken a first aid course, sure, but it’s different when it’s _actually happening in front of your eyes_ -)

“I’m…” He is the stiff, stern and distant man again; his jaw tightens. “I’m just glad that you’re here.”

* * *

 

School starts a month later, and though she has adjusted to her home life, being around new and real and _living_ people is something else entirely.

Her first day has been uneventful so far, but that is completely changed when, in math class, she is assigned a seat next to a pretty girl named Jeyne Poole, who smiles genuinely at her and is the only one who does not ask why she has burns that cover her face. (Jeyne herself has frostbite on the tip of her nose, the small patch of skin tinted black.)

They exchange numbers before the period ends, and Shireen tries to play it cool as she dials her number into Jeyne’s phone. Jeyne saunters off to her next class with a wave and a grin. (She is the first contact in Shireen’s cell, besides her mom and dad and Uncle Renly, but those don’t really count.)

(She is also Shireen’s first friend on Facebook; Jeyne tells her she is honoured to hold that position.)

* * *

 

“How was school?”

Shireen snaps her head up, refocusing on her father and letting the leftover slice of pizza hang limply in her hand. They hadn’t spoken a word to each other ever since he got home, apart from a quick, mumbled, “Hello”. (But the silence between them is never awkward, yet somehow comfortable.)

“It was okay.”

“Did you make any friends?”  

She takes a cautious bite of her pizza, and slowly swallows the mouthful. “I think so. One, maybe.”

Her dad nods, obviously deep in thought. “Good.”

That’s the last time she hears him talk that night.

* * *

 

“Who are you talking to?” a voice from down the hall hisses.

“No one!” is the squeaked reply.

Ever so slowly, Shireen pokes her head around her locker door, searching for the source of the ruckus. The rest of the students pay no heed, as if the shouting is commonplace.

“Don’t lie to me, you bitch!”

Shireen’s eyes land upon the predator; the boy must be a year or two ahead of her, with thick scowling lips and dark hair and the coldest, hardest, palest eyes she’s ever seen. He’s shoving a girl against the wall, wrenching the phone from her hands and pulling on her hair. The girl is obviously crying, wailing for help, but no one stops to rip them apart.

“You little slut, Poole.”

Shireen stops breathing.

_Jeyne?_

Shireen checks her phone, and gulps.

_Three unread messages from Jeyne Poole._

* * *

 

Math class rolls around once more, but Jeyne makes sure her seat is as far away from Shireen as possible. She never breathes a word to her, never so much as glances up at her, but Jeyne doesn’t need to say anything for Shireen to know that she is hurting right now. (That much is obvious.)

Jeyne keeps her eyes on her desk throughout the entire period, but, through the curtain of chestnut hair that she hides behind, Shireen can see an angry purple bruise forming on her swollen cheek. (She wants to tell Jeyne that everything will be okay, but deep down, she knows it won’t be. Not for awhile, anyway.)

* * *

 

“How was school?”

She shrugs.

“Is everything all right?”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

She shakes her head.

“You can…you can eat in your room, if you want to be alone.”

She takes her father up on that offer.

* * *

 

“Hey,” she whispers into her phone, as if she is divulging some terrible secret, “are you okay?”

“Yeah.” (Shireen is surprised that Jeyne actually answered her call.)

“I, um, I mean… I saw what happened, in the halls.” She instantly regrets saying that. Jeyne will be hurt and angry that she didn’t do anything, just stood by while she was shoved around by-

“I think everyone did.” Jeyne lets out a tiny, humourless chuckle.

“It was my fault, wasn’t it?” Tears well at the corners of Shireen’s eyes and threaten to escape. “Jeyne, I-I’m so sorry. I-I won’t text you, ever again, if _that_ -”

“No. It was my fault.” Jeyne lowers her voice, and Shireen can tell that she is crying. “I should have known that Ramsay would get upset. He doesn’t like it when I…” She can’t see her, but Shireen knows that Jeyne is shaking her head. “It doesn’t matter. I-I should get going.”

Jeyne hangs up on her before Shireen gets the chance to say goodbye.

* * *

 

She Skypes with her mom the next day, faking smiles and pretending everything is fine and making _extra_ sure she never mentions the whole incident with Jeyne. (That last part is easy enough, considering her mom is the one to talk for most of the conversation.)

Dad hangs around by the computer, trying to look nonchalant as he feigns interest in the hockey game playing on the telly. Shireen has her headphones in, so it’s not as if he can hear most of what is being said. (She doesn’t think that matters, though. He is happy with simply a glimpse of Selyse, who looks refreshed and relaxed and _happy_ for the first time in her life.)

“Shireen,” her mother says, suddenly serious. “There’s something your father and I both think you should know.”

“Yes?”

“Well… We’ve been talking, and…”

Shireen raises an eyebrow. “And?”

“And…we both think…” Mom takes a deep breath and restarts, with much more confidence. “We think it’s a good idea to see other people.”

“Oh,” is all Shireen can say.

It’s one thing to have your parents split up, but to see them with other people? She’d never even considered that possibility. (They were _MomandDad_ , always had been; they were a unit. They weren’t _Mom_ and _Dad_ , on their own.) (The fact that they talked about dating other people means that their separation is that much more _final_. And it scares her.)

“I should probably go to bed,” Shireen mumbles, “I have a big day tomorrow.”

“All right, sweetie.” Mom smiles, and Shireen wishes she were here, wishes she could fall into her arms and cry on her shoulder as her mom patted her on the back, singing softly in her ear. She would tell her all about Jeyne and her scumbag boyfriend, and why did she always get butterflies in her tummy whenever she saw or even _thought about_ Jeyne? (Moms always had the answer.)

“Goodnight, Mom.”

“Goodnight, darling. I love you.”

* * *

 

She tiptoes downstairs that night, clad in her nightgown and fuzzy slippers that are too small for her and so tattered it’s a miracle they’re holding themselves together. Dad is still sitting on the couch, and though he is staring at the muted telly, she knows he cannot _see_ any of it. (Most things are just blurs to him by now.)

She brews them each a cup of tea- mulled apple, his favourite. He does not even register her presence when she hands him the mug (it almost shatters to the floor).

“What are you still doing up?” she asks in a murmur.

“I should be asking you the same thing.”

“Touché.”

They sit in silence for awhile, sipping their drinks and letting the steam curl around them. The vapour fogs her vision, but she can still see well enough to notice the tension in his shoulders, the slight downward twitching of his lip, the creases etched into his thin skin. In the darkness of the den, he reminds her of a skeleton, all bones and bitterness and misery.

“Are you, um…” She brings her legs up to rest her chin on her knees. “Are you going to date anyone? Mom…she told me what you guys talked about.”

“I don’t…” He is grinding his teeth again, an old habit that he’d never dropped. “That’s not really my first priority right now.”

“And what is?” she finds herself asking.

“That’s you, Shireen.” He draws her close and presses a kiss to her temple. He smells like hotel soap and faded cologne and cheap take-out curry. “Go to bed, sweetheart.”

* * *

 

“Hey, Scarface!”

Shireen doesn’t realize he is talking to her until he shoves her against the lockers.

“I’m _talking_ to you,” he growls, a hint of sarcasm in his voice. “Don’t you know your manners? It’s rude to ignore someone.”

“I’m sorry,” she mutters. Keeping her books close to her chest, she swerves away, hoping to lose him in the crowd, but he does not let up. “May I help you?”

“Why has Jeyne been texting you?”

“We don’t text.” It was not a _total_ lie.

He pushes her up against the wall, his forearm pressing on her windpipe. “Why were you talking to her?” His breath is hot across her face, and he smells gross and she _tries_ to push him away, but he is a good foot taller than her and almost double her width.

“She was just being nice,” she whispers, tears stinging her eyes. “We don’t talk anymore, I _promise_.”

“You’d better keep it that way.” Disgustedly, he shoulders her into the wall once more before storming off. She gulps air in greedily, her blood pounding in her ears. Furiously, she wipes her tears away, and heads for class.   

* * *

 

“Shireen?” Dad asks, concerned. “Did something happen at school? You seem…off.” He’s not the best at these things, but he’s trying, and she appreciates that. She just doesn’t want to talk about it.

“Everything’s fine. I’m just tired, is all.”

“You know you can talk to me, right?”

She forces a smile. “I know. Thanks.”

* * *

 

“Hello?”

“Hi, sweetie!” Her mom sounds absolutely blissful on the other line. (She’d been released from the rehab centre the other day, so Shireen was not exactly surprised by the bubbly behaviour.) “How’s it going?”

“Okay… You?”

“I wanted to talk. About what I told you the other day.” A beat. “Well… oh, gods, this is so strange to say over the phone. I…I’m dating someone?”

“Wow. That…that’s great, mom.” She swallows thickly. “Who’s the lucky guy?”

“Um, about that.” Shireen _knows_ her mom is blushing. “How do I say this? I’m dating a woman named Melisandre. I mean, I thought, I’m not getting any younger, right? So why not get out there, try new things?” (Shireen thinks she might throw up.)

“I’m really happy for you, Mom. Did you tell Dad?”

“…put him on the phone, would you, sweetie?”

* * *

 

One day, Shireen is finally fed up with the silence.

She turns to Jeyne in math class, eyes blazing. “Why are you _with_ that jerk?” she demands in a hushed voice.

Jeyne sucks her bottom lip between her teeth. “You wouldn’t understand, okay? Just stop talking.” 

“Jeyne, I’m worried for you. He’s bad news.”

“Don’t you think I know that?” Poole hisses. She is pressing her pencil to the paper with such force, the tip snaps off and goes flying. “I don’t need someone else policing me, all right?”

“I just-”

“I know, you’re worried. Your concern is appreciated, but it’s unnecessary.” The bruise under her eye is still healing. “Stay out of this, Shireen. For your own good.”

* * *

 

Thanksgiving break rolls around, and Shireen spends the holiday with her dad and Uncle Davos and Aunt Marya and all of their sons. (To this date, Shireen is _still_ not sure of the exact number of kids they have. She’s convinced that Davos doesn’t even know, either.)

By the time she and her dad get back to their house, it’s late and she’s almost bursting from all the turkey she ate, and all she wants to do is collapse onto her bed. Her cell _ring_ s before that can happen, and, groggily, she picks up.

“Shireen?” It’s Jeyne. “I-I know it’s late, but…did you want to go for a walk?”

“It’s almost eleven o’clock.” She wants to go, though, wants to see Jeyne and apologize and make sure she never sees _him_ ever again. So she says yes.

“Good, because I’m waiting on your lawn.”

Shireen looks out her window, and, true to her word, Jeyne is reclining on the damp grass. She waves up at her, and even from here, Shireen can see her smile.

* * *

 

“So, you know all about me,” Jeyne starts, lighting up a cigarette. “What’s your story?”

Shireen shrugs and licks her lips. “My parents divorced; Mom went to rehab for depression and anxiety and several other things that I can’t pronounce- oh, and she’s apparently a lesbian now-, and I got shipped off here to my dad’s.” She smiles, almost shyly. “Nothing too exciting or interesting.”

“I think you’re _very_ interesting,” Jeyne admits proudly.

They talk and walk for what seems like hours, and soon enough- much too soon, in Shireen’s opinion-, they wind back up in front of the Baratheon residence.

“That was fun,” Shireen says. Her fingers are numb and she cannot stop shivering, but she barely pays attention to that. Instead, she focuses on how pretty Jeyne looks when she grins, how bright her eyes are, even in the dark. “We should do that again sometime.” (It will not happen, though, not as long as _he_ is around.)

Jeyne brushes her lips against hers, soft and warm and sweet and Shireen returns the kiss eagerly, bumping noses with Jeyne and putting her hands on Jeyne’s shoulders. Shireen has only been kissed by Devan before; kissing a girl is an otherworldly experience. There is no aggression or awkward shifting to accommodate different heights and body builds, and the butterflies in Shireen’s tummy are more bothersome than ever, especially when Jeyne nibbles on Shireen’s bottom lip.

“I’ll see you at school,” Jeyne says, pulling away after an eternity; Shireen can only look at her pink, swollen lips as they move. “Happy Thanksgiving.” She kisses Shireen once more, much quicker this time, and retreats into the darkness of Storm’s End Street.

* * *

 

Monday is a normal day at school, but Tuesday…

Jeyne does not show up on Tuesday.

Shireen dismisses it at first- she probably caught the cold that’s been going around, or maybe she has an appointment. She knows something is awry, though, when the door to the girls’ bathroom locks with a _click_. She stays in her stall, holding her breath and keeping very still.

“I know you’re in here, Shireen,” he taunts. “I just want to play a game, is all.”

She’s not sure how he does it, but he manages to unlock her stall door; he kicks her to the ground, and the side of her head hits the plastic divider. She expects to be hit again, but it never comes. She flicks an eye open, to find him staring down at her, _fuming_.

“I heard what you did with Jeyne over the weekend.” He grabs her by the shirt and _pulls_ , and they are so close that their noses are touching. “Did you think I wouldn’t find out?” He slams her against the divider again; she lets out a small whimper.

“Nothing happened-”

He slaps her clean across the face, instantly giving her a split lip.

“Keep your mouth shut, you dyke.”

He hurls insults at her, smacking her and spitting on her and all Shireen could think is, _did he do this to Jeyne_?

How badly must he have beaten her up yesterday, if she did not show her face today?

Shireen can handle being tossed around, can handle the sharp words and hateful glares.

But she cannot handle the thought of Jeyne- or anyone else, for that matter- being treated this way.

“Are you afraid of fire, dyke?” There’s an evil glimmer in his eyes. “I can only imagine so.” He runs his thumb along her scars; she flinches. “Would you still be as ugly without them?”

His lighter slides into his hand from his sleeve, and he flicks it open. He holds it close to her, casting a strange glow over him. She backs up further against the stall divider, nails digging into her palms so hard there is blood coating her skin.

There is a burning smell in the air, and she knows that the tips of her bangs have been singed off. The scent grows stronger, and she yelps as the flames lick at her skin. A moment later, the heat is gone.

“Stay the hell away from Jeyne.”

He spits at her feet, then leaves the washroom as quickly as he came in. 

* * *

 

She doesn’t look at herself in the mirror until she gets home, and there are tears streaming down her face and burning her eyes so badly she can barely see.

One of her eyebrows is burnt off, and he made sure that she would not be able to cover it with her bangs. Her skin is unmarred for the most part, at least, though a blister or two is certain to appear.

“Shireen?” Dad knocks on the bathroom door.

“I’m in the bath,” she blurts out, “don’t come in.”

His hand turns the knob anyway, and when he sees her, there is pure fear on his face. (She has never seen him _scared_ before. She didn’t think it was possible.)

“Who did this to you?” His voice is dark and menacing; it sends shivers down her spine.

Trembling, she utters two words, the name of her attacker.

_Ramsay. Bolton._

* * *

 

Ramsay doesn’t come to school for the next week, and when Monday rolls around, Jeyne is sitting next to her in math class once more. They have not spoken since their midnight walk, and just _thinking_ about the kiss makes the blood rush to her cheeks. (There is an odd sense of peace in the silence today, though, so she does not pester Jeyne with any questions.)

She sits in the library at lunch, just like she always does, catching up on her homework and nibbling delicately on the peanut butter and jam sandwich her dad had prepared for her.

The screen of her phone lights up.

**Jeyne Poole:** _Hi :)_

Shireen checks around, to make sure that the librarian isn’t snooping around. By the time she plucks up her cell to reply, Jeyne has already sent her another text.

**Jeyne Poole:** _Fancy a midnight walk? :3_

Shireen smiles.

**Shireen Baratheon:** _I wouldn’t miss it for the world._

* * *

 

“Dad?”

“Hmm?”

“Did you, um… Do you know what happened to Ramsay?”

Dad sets his newspaper aside and runs his fingers through his greying hair. “I talked to his father.” His thin fingers trace the lines on the wooden table. “I told Roose what was going on with you and his son, with Miss Poole.”

“How did you know about-”

“Roose pulled him out of school. I’m not exactly sure where he sent him, but he mentioned something about a juvenile detention facility.” (Uncle Davos had been in one of those, way back when, even before he met her father.)

“You didn’t have to do that.”

He finally looks at her, then, his blue eyes hard but understanding. “It was necessary.” He moves his chair closer to hers, and puts a hand on her arm. His gaze is intense, burning right through her. “I know how people like Ramsay work. Once a thing tastes blood, it will come for more.”

(She’s never seen this side of her father before. He is iron; he is _steel_.)

“I love you, Dad.” She throws her arms around his neck and hugs him tightly, her frame shaking with silent sobs.

He may not be one for physical affection- he is cold and stern and distant-, but she _knows_ that he loves her. And she would never trade him for the world.

“I love you, too, Shireen.”

**Author's Note:**

> Send me prompts on [tumblr](http://sophieturnip.tumblr.com/ask)! :)


End file.
